George Washington's Secret Six

by Brian Kilmeade

  I would add a further hint on this subject. Even letters may be made more subservient to this communication, than they have yet been. He may write a familiar letter on domestic affairs, or on some little matters of business, to his friend at Setauket or elsewhere, interlining with the stain his secret intelligence, or writing it on the opposite blank side of the letter. But that his friend may know how to distinguish these from letters addressed solely to himself, he may always leave such as contain secret information without date or place (dating it with the stain), or fold them up in a particular manner, which may be concerted between the parties. This last appears to be the best mark of the two, and may be the signal of their being designated for me. The first mentioned mode, however, or that of the books, appears to me the one least liable to detection. I am, &c.

  Washington, it seems, was an advocate of the practice of hiding messages in plain view. If a letter appeared suspicious or was treated with the utmost caution and concern, it was more likely to tip off British inspectors. By instead passing along the highly sensitive information disguised as dull letters on day-to-day family news or hidden in a book, the vehicle by which the message was being sent would probably not warrant a second glance. Only the intended recipient would know, alerted by an otherwise meaningless clue such as a specific fold, that there was anything more to the item than what met the eye.

  With Rivington’s print shop operating just down the street, and as someone who enjoyed an established relationship with the owner, Townsend had no shortage of books available for sending messages the way Washington had put forward. But Townsend, using his invisible ink, seems to have preferred an alternative means of his own design: When the courier (usually Woodhull or Roe, judging from his store’s ledger) arrived to pick up the goods he had purchased to bring back to Long Island, among them would be a packet of blank writing paper. Concealed within those loose leaves was a seemingly blank sheet that contained the invisible letter to be rendered readable once it reached its destination and the stain was applied. Clear communication as to how many sheets into the stack the significant paper would be placed was essential to avoid wasting precious reagent in an attempt to discern which sheet contained the message, but all in all it worked extremely well as an innocuous way to smuggle reports out of the city.

  With these new security measures in place, and Culper Junior and 355 firmly established in their roles in New York, the ring could now begin to forward intelligence more swiftly, safely, and in greater detail than before, though the risk of detection and capture remained. The life of a spy always requires looking over one’s shoulder, but now Washington’s operatives could enjoy at least a little more freedom to speak about their observances and advisements without needing to censor their words in case a letter fell into the wrong hands.

  The added security was just in time, too, with André’s arrival in the city. There were plots afoot—plans of deceit, treason, and betrayal—and the only hope the Americans had to survive them was to be prepared. Washington knew that New York City was of the utmost strategic importance from a military perspective, but even he could not anticipate how crucial the intelligence collected there would be in saving the cause for liberty. And neither side, American nor British, could yet imagine just how deep the treachery reached within its own ranks.

  CHAPTER 8

  Mounting Tensions and Double-Dealings

  Suspicions and tensions were beginning to rise even as the summer of 1779 reached its peak, and all the agents were feeling the stress. Washington sent “all the white Ink I now have (indeed all that there is any prospect of getting soon)” with a trusted colonel, along with the desperate instructions:

  You will send these to C——r, Junr., as soon as possible, and I beg that no mention may ever be made of your having received such liquids from me or any one else. In all cases and at all times this procedure and circumspection is necessary, but it is indispensably so now as I am informed that Govr. Tryon [British governor of New York] has a preparation of the same acid or something similar to it, which may lead to a detection if it is ever known that a matter of this sort has passed from me.

  Just four days later, Townsend prepared another letter for General Washington, closing with several lines that pointed to the increased danger he was also observing. “The times now are extreamly difficult,” he wrote. “Guard boats are kept out every night in the North and East Rivers to prevent any boats from passing, & I am informed that some persons have been searched on Long Island; therefore, whenever you think that my intelligence is of no service, beg you will notify me.”

  Indeed, letters were now being searched with regularity as they left the city. Jonas Hawkins, the ring’s sometime courier, twice believed he was in danger of being found out and destroyed the missives he was carrying from Townsend, much to the older man’s annoyance.

  On September 11, 1779, Woodhull acted as courier in place of Hawkins and wrote to explain what had happened to the letters from Culper Junior that had never made it to Washington as a result of Hawkins’s fear. “The bearer thought himself in danger. I believe it was merely imaginary,” Woodhull penned. “From timidity and the situation of affairs at the time, he did to choose to come to N.Yk; I therefore met him at a place quite out of danger on Long-Island. I then made an appointment . . . at wch. time he came, I wrote it, and took it over the Ferry that he might run no hazard from the Inspector of Letters there.”

  Townsend had never felt confident in Hawkins, having resented that his identity necessarily should be known by a boy he considered too immature for such serious work. For all of Townsend’s natural reserve, his reaction was almost certainly far from calm.

  “He should have never been entrusted with such a task!” Townsend stormed to Woodhull when he learned of the destruction of his second letter.

  “We needed another courier,” Woodhull tried to explain.

  “But why am I risking my life gathering information day after day if my letters are to be destroyed before they reach the general?”

  Woodhull shook his head. “The boy simply panicked.”

  “But one who panics—or even looks nervous—before the inspectors is bound to bring extra scrutiny upon himself. And if he is searched and anything suspicious is found upon him, where will be the first place the British turn?” He paused, looking to Woodhull for an answer, but Woodhull just scraped at a bit of candle wax on the table. “They’ll look to any of his known associates, and to the last place he did business which, inevitably, will bring them to my shop,” Townsend finished, flatly.

  “We are, all of us, on edge,” Woodhull said quietly.

  “And we are, all of us, endangered by that boy’s want of good sense and composure.” Townsend banged his fist upon the table with such force it caused the candles to jump.

  “I cannot always be coming here to retrieve your information myself. That will raise suspicions, too,” Woodhull insisted. “Besides, General Washington desires the information even more quickly than we have been supplying it. If you wait until I am able to make the trip, it will only delay the relay of news.”

  “Then we get another man,” Townsend said, sighing and sinking into the straight-backed chair. “This time one who knows how to keep his wits about him.”

  “But you were the one who insisted that your identity not be disclosed to anyone else. So what are we to do?”

  Townsend dropped his head into his hands. The two friends discussed several scenarios, weighing the risks and benefits of each. Finally, they thought of Amos Underhill, Woodhull’s brother-in-law and the proprietor of the boardinghouse where Woodhull stayed on his frequent trips to Manhattan.

  “He needs provisions as much as anyone else. Why could he not frequent my shop for goods and pick up the reports at the same time?” Townsend mused.

  Woodhull considered this. “I’d still have to travel into the city to retrieve them, unless Amos could be convinced to come acr
oss the water sometimes.”

  “But it would lessen your visits to my shop, and give us fewer opportunities to be spotted together. And he need not know the exact nature of our business together unless you deem it absolutely necessary.”

  “It’s a gloomy thing to toast on,” Woodhull remarked. “But I agree that it’s a far better thing than to have young Hawkins destroy any more of your letters or, worse, be driven to madness and confess all. Give me a bit of time to present the matter to Amos and make proper arrangements. Until then, I will continue to serve as courier.”

  One can hardly blame Hawkins for his trepidation; the threats were growing and the whole Culper Ring felt the squeeze. The pressure continued to mount as autumn approached. Besides fearing British searches, the couriers also faced dangers from increasingly active privateers. In his letter dated November 1, 1779, Tallmadge wrote to General Washington of the growing hazards faced by members of the ring, including the once-fearless Caleb Brewster: “The boat that crosses for dispatches from C—— has been chased quite across the Sound by those plunderers, perhaps for the sake of being the more secret in their Villany, while our crew has suspected them to be the Enemy. Indeed if some stop cannot be put to such nefarious practices C—— will not risque, nor 725 [Brewster] go over for dispatches.”

  By the end of November, Amos Underhill’s name began to appear regularly in Townsend’s ledger. Hawkins, meanwhile, seems also to have questioned his involvement and quietly removed himself from the ring. Underhill’s appearance could not have been better timed, as Woodhull’s nerves were again getting the best of him. Woodhull had been questioned by a party of British troops while en route to meet up with Townsend at a safe house on Long Island, but apparently he kept his wits about him, because he was released without having to succumb to a more thorough search; Townsend, however, did not show. Woodhull waited at the rendezvous point the next day as well, but there was no sign of Culper Junior. The excuse for his absence does not appear in any of Townsend’s letters, but as he was quite condemning in his correspondence of others who failed to make appointments, it was undoubtedly a serious matter beyond simply a lack of courage. The slip brought Woodhull nearly to a breaking point, prompting him to tell Tallmadge afterward that he had endured “a full year’s anxiety, which no one can scarcely have an idea of, but those that experience. Not long since, there was not even the breadth of your finger betwixt me and death.”

  Woodhull’s complaint was not unwarranted. The residents of Long Island were bracing for an even greater number of troops to be quartered there during the coming winter than they had endured the winter before; they also continued to absorb Loyalist refugees from all over the eastern seaboard. “The inhabitants of this Island at present live a miserable life, which you may readily judge when having the refuse of three kingdoms and thirteen States amongst them. Plundering and rapine increaseth at no small rate,” Woodhull wrote in the same letter to Tallmadge. “I am tired of this business, it gives me a deal of trouble, especially when disappointments happen. Could not consent to be any longer an assistant if I was not almost an Enthusiast for our success.”

  But there was a covert storm brewing in New York—one that Townsend was in the process of uncovering and confirming—that threatened the Americans not through bloodshed or siege, but through their pocketbooks. And if it was on account of uncovering this business that Townsend was unable to meet up with Woodhull, he might very well be excused by reason of the magnitude of the plot he thwarted.

  STRIKING A MINT

  The British were highly skilled counterfeiters, and one of their favorite ways to attack the Americans was by depreciating colonial currency. At the most basic level, a worthless currency made it difficult for the Continental Army to purchase rations and rendered the soldiers’ pay quite literally not worth the paper it was printed on. On a grander scale, having a wildly inflated currency made it nearly impossible for American diplomats overseas to secure credit with foreign banks—a severe problem in both the short and long terms. Without financial backing, the Americans could not bankroll the food, men, horses, war ships, and weapons needed to win the Revolution. If, against all odds, they were successful in their split from the British Crown, the new nation would need credit to rebuild its infrastructure—a concern the British did not have to contend with, because the war was an ocean away from London.

  Recognizing the vulnerability of the American currency, the British ran counterfeiting operations aboard British ships and onshore where possible. Distribution of counterfeit bills was an open secret in the early years of the war, with advertisements even running in newspapers for travelers headed to other colonies to carry with them fake bills of their current location to their new destination. Aware of the danger, Woodhull himself even insisted on being paid in the king’s currency—a request Washington honored without question.

  The Continental Congress had made some efforts to combat the counterfeiting but saw limited success. Eventually, they developed a special paper of a very precise quality and thickness that would be used to produce the bulk of the money minted in Philadelphia and, it was hoped, would be extremely difficult to replicate. This would allow the government much greater control as to the amount in circulation, which would, in turn, control inflation.

  What Townsend learned, however, and wrote about with urgency to Washington on November 27, 1779, was that “several reams of the paper made for the last emissions struck by Congress have been procured from Philadelphia.” The one safeguard upon which the Americans were counting to protect their currency had been breached. Somehow, whether through negligence or a double agent, the paper and possibly even the printer plates had made their way to New York, where the British could use them to churn out perfect counterfeits. Distribution in New York would drive down prices and sink the economy of the colonies right in the heart of their main trading hub. General Clinton, Major André, and their colleagues based in New York would meanwhile be feasting and dining on the unmatched power of sterling currency as the city—and the entire fledgling nation—crumbled around them.

  Though the attempts to destroy the war effort through counterfeit bills were neither new nor secret, the magnitude of this particular plot and the fact that the worthless bills would be undetectable before it was too late made this intelligence of no small significance. With word from the Culpers delivered swiftly, Washington was able to alert Congress to the scheme. The resulting action—a cancellation of all colonial bills a few months later in March 1780—was drastic and potentially devastating in itself, but far less destructive to the American economy and morale than a sneak attack on its currency would have been.

  Just how had Townsend uncovered such a plan? He may have happened upon some gossip by lucky coincidence, but the certainty with which Townsend outlined the plan for Tallmadge and Washington indicates that he had a much more intimate knowledge of the scheme than just hearsay. His source? The newest member of the ring.

  THE MANY LIVES OF JAMES RIVINGTON: THE LAST PIECE

  James Rivington, that same enterprising printer, newspaper editor, and coffeehouse owner with whom both Townsend and André had a friendship, was something of an American success story—though his path was far from typical. Whatever misfortunes he had suffered in England, his businesses were thriving in the New World and he was a master of spotting new opportunities. By the middle of the 1770s, his New York–based newspaper was being read at least as far south as Baltimore. When the sparks of revolution became the full-fledged flames of war in 1775, however, Rivington’s shop was looted and burned by the Sons of Liberty, with some of his presses and typefaces being melted down for ammunition. He moved his family back to England for their own safety, then returned to New York in 1777, where he opened his businesses near Townsend’s shop.

  While Rivington was away, his surviving presses were busy serving the king without him. On June 26, 1776, a counterfeiter named Israel Young testified to having heard from a tr
usted source that a ship in New York waters, the Duchess of Gordon, had been the site of a counterfeiting workshop. What was more, Young recounted, the work was overseen by none other than New York’s colonial governor, William Tryon. Young swore that he heard from his source that he “had also seen Governour Tryon often, and that the Governour would talk very free with them; that they had on board a number of Rivington’s types and one of his printers.” The source “received a letter which he said was from the Governour, and also some water-work money, which he said they counterfeited on board the Duchess, and he himself had seen them printing it off; that they had a chest of it.”

  Whether it was with Rivington’s knowledge at the time or not, his name was thus linked with the counterfeiting trade and he undoubtedly drank free in British circles afterward for having such a reputation. Any rumors of counterfeiting schemes circulating among the British officer corps of New York would have certainly been considered of interest to Rivington, and he may have even been consulted as to the best way to carry out the endeavor. With Townsend in his employ and frequenting the coffeehouse, word of the plan could have easily slipped out either accidentally or as a matter of interest to the curious part-time reporter.

  Or it might have been very deliberately shared.

  As it turns out, there was much more to James Rivington, “Printer to the King’s Most Excellent Majesty,” than met the eye. At some point following his return to America from England at the end of 1777, it seems that his loyalties shifted. It remains unclear whether he was driven by a change of heart toward the American cause, a desire for monetary gain, or simply frustration at the Crown’s objections and prohibitions to his printing criticisms of the leadership of General Howe in the autumn of 1778. But what is certain is that Rivington secretly threw in his lot with the Americans and began to work alongside Robert Townsend gathering information and conveying it outside the city to General Washington’s waiting hands.